


Out of Nothing At All

by perfectlystill



Series: To All The People Who Loved Peter And MJ Before [3]
Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, POV Outsider, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 14:19:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18551503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: Because Harry knows MJ doesn’t love him. He hopes she will eventually. He hopes that if he loves her enough and figures out the way she wants to be loved, she’ll love him back. He just has to be patient.In which being in love with MJ blinds Harry to three things: the similarities between his approach to their relationship and the one he has with his father, the mess of her bedroom, and her lack of desire to stop loving Peter Parker.





	Out of Nothing At All

**Author's Note:**

> Title a gross misreading of Air Supply's "Making Love Out of Nothing At All."

Harry cracks his knuckles and takes a deep breath before walking into the conference room. He pulls out one of the remaining chairs at a table toward the middle and plops down. Leaning back, he lays his forearm against the table. “Hey.”

The only girl smiles, shaky and nervous. “Hi.”

One of the guys introduces himself as Roger before bragging about knowing the company’s CEO. Harry nods. His father regularly has the CEO over for dinner, so Harry figures it’ll be easy to make friends with this dude. 

“Peter,” another intern says, reaching across the table to shake Harry’s hand. 

It strikes him as oddly formal and lacking the air of cool Harry is attempting to cultivate, but he lifts his hand and shakes Peter’s regardless. “Harry.”

“Cara and I are both working under Mr. Warren in the genetics lab,” Peter says. 

“The genome splicing stuff?”

“Yeah,” the girl, Cara, agrees. “My friend Erin helped out last fall and said it was really fascinating. Except Warren doesn’t offer much guidance. He’s too busy with some secret work he deems too important to let his interns near, or something.”

Peter makes a joke about the interns being gnomes on Warren’s lawn, playing off the similarities between the words gnome and genome. There’s possibly some _Gnomeo and Juliet_ thing in there, too. Harry only catches it because his last girlfriend made him watch the movie one night when they were both drunk. In high school, not laughing might have taken some effort, but Harry’s trained himself to ignore jokes made by people he knows don’t have social capital to offer in exchange. 

Cara laughs, though, quiet and warm. 

Roger raises an eyebrow at Harry as if to share in some secret shaming of Peter’s sense of humor. 

An easy friend.

 

 

Roger is placed in a different lab dealing with GMOs, so he and Harry catch up in the company’s cafeteria for lunch when they manage it. Roger likes to brag about being well-connected, the girls he’s slept with, and his acceptance into Harvard, Princeton and Yale. He’s the type of guy Harry would have wanted to be in high school. But they’re starting their senior year of university in the fall, and Roger’s cool is too tryhard, veering on immature. It freaks Harry out to think maybe that’s how he comes across, too. 

Cara and Peter bond quickly in the lab. Harry hears them muttering about slides and microbes, exchanging dining suggestions and stories about their significant others. Peter always says ‘hello’ in the morning, walking in late most days. He extends lunch invitations to Harry when he heads down to eat, and he doesn’t hesitate to ask Harry to check over his data even though Harry has yet to find a single miscalculation. 

Peter is kind, more outgoing than Cara, and Harry thinks maybe that’s the friendship he should have been trying to nurture for the first month of their summer internship. 

Then Pepper Potts drops by the lab. 

“Hi, Peter,” she greets, smile small and amused.

“Ms. Potts, Hey.” Peter pulls off his gloves, tossing them into the garbage and pushing some hair away from his forehead. He eagerly shakes her outstretched hand. “I didn’t know you were coming to town, or I would have--”

“Peter,” she cuts him off and pulls her hand away from the see-saw motion he has her arm locked in. “That’s because I didn’t tell you. Can’t have you trying to encroach on my lunch with MJ.”

Peter balks. “You’re having lunch with MJ?”

“She wants some advice.” The mischievousness disappears from Pepper’s face.

“About what?”

She shrugs, half-hearted and possibly concerned. “I just wanted to stop by to say ‘hello’ before my meeting. And Tony wants you to call him.” The look she sends Peter seems significant, if only because of the way Peter’s shoulders slouch in response. 

“Yeah, okay, alright.” Peter nods and runs a hand through his hair. “Good to see you.”

Harry looks back and forth between Pepper fucking Potts and Peter.

He really misread Peter that first day, and he definitely should have been trying to befriend him instead of Roger.

The door closes behind Pepper, and Harry asks, “You know Tony Stark?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

Peter exhales and finds Harry’s eyes. “Internship in high school.” He lifts one shoulder as if to say _What can you do?_

“Cool.” Harry twists the fine adjustment knob on his microscope. “My dad knows Tony Stark.”

The fact that he sounds like Roger doesn’t elude Harry. 

 

 

Harry bites his sandwich and mustard drips down his chin. He hastily reaches for a napkin. Unable to pull one from the stack, he wipes his face with a thick layer of cheap, scratchy paper instead of a single, thin, scratchy napkin. 

“Yeah, it’s definitely nice to have a guaranteed job,” Peter says. “Believe me, I know how lucky I am. But, I don’t know, the idea of taking it feels like some sort of failure.”

Harry swallows. “Why?”

“I’ve been told it’s either imposter syndrome or nepotism.”

“You’d be qualified, so everybody who has anything negative to say can fuck off.”

“Sure.” Peter laughs. “But if I’m so qualified to work for Mr. Stark, I should be able to find a job somewhere else.”

“Then why are you worried about it?” Harry asks. 

Accepting Peter’s lunch invitations started with wide-eyed gaping, concealed just slowly enough for Harry to notice. When Cara comes, lunch includes the latest drama with her girlfriend. Cara loves her despite her inability to rinse her dishes before putting them into the dishwater. Harry considers it more information than he needs, but he doesn’t mind having it. 

Most days they discuss any lab progress they’ve made. They complain about Warren whenever he stops by, humming noncommittally as he leans over their shoulders, causing all three of them to feel on edge. Complaining is something Harry excels at. Just ask his father. 

“MJ just got a job offer here in Boston. She doesn’t know if she’s going to take it. She doesn’t care for the city, but she’s in love with her supervisor.”

“In love?” Harry raises an eyebrow. 

“I guess she’s the third most awesome woman to have ever lived.”

“Third?”

“After May and MJ.”

“Who’s first and who’s second?”

Peter glances over his shoulder. “Are you trying to get me killed?”.

“If I do, maybe Tony Stark will give me the job reserved for you.”

Peter laughs. “Interesting long con, Harry. Especially since I just told you I don’t want the job.”

Harry shrugs. “Always good to have a back up.”

Harry plans on working for his father, anyway. He’s been preordained to take over Oscorp since before Oscorp even existed, so if Peter thinks he knows anything about nepotism, Harry’s pretty sure he has him beat. His dad doesn’t trust him to help run the company. His dad has never offered him any sort of security clearance. Hell, he’s never even taken Harry on a tour of the facility. 

He can’t say no to the job, though. 

His father would disown him. 

 

 

There’s a mid-summer banquet all the interns are required to attend. Harry understands the importance of networking, so he’s already re-introduced himself to the CEO, schmoozed a representative from Massachusetts, and obtained the email address of someone he remembers his father having over for dinner. He acted a bit jumpy about his current client, meaning his current client is a big deal.

The hors d'oeuvres are delicious, and Harry picks up another one as he heads back to regroup at his table. Speeches and dinner should start in the next few minutes. If he’s lucky, the AI innovator from Stanford will tear herself away from Roger soon, and Harry can sneak in and discuss her latest article before everyone sits down and drinks too much wine.

He pops the entire mini sandwich into his mouth and realizes he should have bitten it in half. As he approaches his table, he finds a woman sitting there, sipping on water and reading _A Little Life_. Her curls tumble over her shoulders, and her palm holds her chin, elbow propped against the table. Harry considers a comment on etiquette. Instead, he says, “I love that book.”

The woman glances up and purses her lips. “It’s one of the worst books I’ve ever read.”

She doesn’t sound judgmental, just plain and honest. Harry crouches down to get a better idea of how much she’s read and discovers she’s approaching the last quarter. “Then why are you still reading it?”

“It’s a trainwreck, and I can’t look away.”

Harry pulls out his chair and sits. “I thought it was interesting commentary on how much one person can handle. The reality of dealing with trauma.”

She flips her page. Harry pours red wine into his glass and watches her mouth flatten. He sees her eyes flit across the book, and then she looks up at him again. Her stare pierces him. Harry knows love at first sight isn’t feasible. It’s hormones, at best. It doesn’t stop him from needing a long gulp of wine. 

“It’s misery porn. Every bad thing happens just because the author thinks it’d be fun to try and force an emotional reaction out of the reader. Yanagihara is not really trying to tell a true story or portray Jude with actual empathy; she’s trying to make the reader feel hopeless. It’s sadistic, unrealistic, and disgustingly irresponsible.”

“And yet you’re going to finish it?” Harry tries again.

“I’ve already read 500 pages, and when I finish it, I can authoritatively tell everyone who loves it why they’re wrong.”

“I’m wrong for liking a book you hate?” 

“Yes.”

She smiles, a brief twist of her mouth. Harry’s enraptured. “The writing is good, at least.”

She rolls her eyes. “If you like overwrought, pretentious prose, then sure.”

“You don’t like any of the metaphors?”

“The hyenas are super obvious.”

“So you haven’t had any emotional reaction at all?” Harry asks before scooting his chair closer to the table. There’s an announcement about dinner being served in five minutes. 

“I did before I realized how blatant the manipulation is.”

“Isn’t all writing the author trying to manipulate you?” 

The woman pushes some hair over her shoulder and shakes her head. “Yeah, but I don’t want to feel the author’s hand, especially when it feels self-aggrandizing. Yanagihara’s work here is forced instead of natural. I can’t immerse myself in the world, the story or the characters because I can feel her over my shoulder constantly asking if I’m crying yet.” 

“It _did_ make me cry.” Harry allows himself to smile, almost uninhibited. 

“And I bet you never cry over books,” she says, all sarcasm. Her eyes wide and, remarkably, for the first time during this conversation, Harry feels her judgment. 

“Only sometimes,” he admits.

“It’s really sad commentary on the patriarchy’s attempt to stifle male emotion that one of the only things that can break through that barrier is unnecessarily abundant torture.”

“Talking about feelings already?” Peter asks, sliding out the chair next to the woman and sitting down. 

“Or lack thereof.” The woman smiles at him, tiny but genuine. 

“In my defense, crying while watching _Bridget Jones’s Diary_ , because Colin Firth really likes her just as she is, is normal. I’m still suspicious that you didn’t shed a single tear.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a dweeb,” she says. She tilts her head toward Harry. “This man is so repressed he hardly ever cries.” 

“So you’ve met Harry.”

“Not officially.”

Peter smiles and turns to look more fully at Harry before making a formal introduction. “MJ, this is Harry, Harry, MJ.”

Harry figured that out when she smiled at Peter, but the confirmation feels unnecessarily devastating considering he’s just met her. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” MJ says. “Even if your taste in literature leaves something to be desired.”

“Likewise,” Harry replies, repressing his smile.

Her point about useless torture porn seems more valid as the night goes on and he catches Peter taking a sip of her water instead of refilling his own glass. Harry watches MJ whisper something in his ear that makes him laugh during the CEO’s speech, and while Harry is waiting to retrieve his coat from check, he eyes the way Peter’s suit jacket hangs off MJ’s shoulders as she slips her hand in his and tugs him away. 

 

 

Harry starts perking up when Peter mentions MJ in passing, but neither he nor Cara seem to notice, and Harry doesn’t ever ask any follow up questions.

He spots MJ leaning against the reception desk in the lobby two weeks later. He ducks his head and considers walking out without saying anything. But Peter isn’t even in the lab, as far as Harry knows.

“Peter isn’t here,” he calls.

MJ looks up from her phone, and her frown deepens. “Oh. Okay.” 

“Yeah, he didn’t come in at all today.” Or the day before that. “He’ll have to make the hours up.”

“Right.” MJ blinks. She reaches down to pick her backpack up off the floor. “Thanks.”

Her hair is pulled back, and Harry thinks there are freckles scattered across her nose that he doesn’t remember from the banquet. “Why are you looking for him?” he asks. 

She swings her bag over her shoulder. “I’m not.”

Harry tilts his head. “Cara left an hour ago.”

“I know,” MJ says. “She responded to my text.”

“Looking for me, then?” Harry asks, and he immediately feels his face heat up. He’s glad his complexion ruins any chance of MJ being able to tell. He knows Peter’s face flushes deep red when he’s embarrassed, but Harry doesn’t really want to think about Peter and MJ in relation to each other and whether she’d like Peter blushing, so he stops the train of thought before it gets too far out of the station. 

She scoffs. “Not a chance.”

“I have some awful books to recommend.”

She twists a ring around her finger. “I don’t have all day.”

Harry smiles. “ _The Lovely Bones_.”

“Interesting concept; boring prose. The universe doesn’t dole out karma through icicles.”

“ _On the Road_.”

“Do you love Hemingway, too, or something?”

Harry laughs. “Shit, not at all. I like his writing, but almost nobody has droned on about the plight of the white man quite like him.”

“ _The Old Man and the Sea_ is good,” MJ counters. There are dark circles underneath her eyes, and Harry would like to run his thumb against the thin skin there before brushing the pad of his finger along her cheekbone. 

“You’re just trying to be argumentative,” he shoots back.

She smiles with her eyes and not her mouth.

“ _Invisible Man_ is my favorite book,” Harry offers. “And I loved _Gone Girl_.”

“A broken clock is still right twice a day.” She rolls her eyes, but Harry senses that it’s a gesture meant for herself rather than a judgment about him.

He’s never seen Parker read anything other than academic essays, and Harry can’t imagine him picking up _A Little Life_ to discuss it with MJ. Harry remembers that she was waiting for him here, or hoping he’d be here. And he isn’t. Harry doesn’t understand how Peter has effortlessly got everything Harry-- Fuck. That’s too dramatic. 

He tries not to ask, but he’s afraid he’ll ask something even worse, like if she’d like to grab some coffee, so he lets the question escape. “How come you don’t know where your boyfriend is?”

Her posture straightens, and her eyes darken. “I don’t track his every move, Harry.”

“Yeah, but you came here looking for him. Does he make it a habit? Not answering your messages?” He doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

Her jaw ticks, she flips him off, and she says, “He always answers.”

Harry blinks, and she’s gone.

 

 

Peter comes to their internship with a black eye.

“What the fuck happened, man?” Harry asks.

Cara shoots him a look. 

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Leave him alone. He had a bad weekend.”

“Bar fight,” Peter mumbles. He pulls out a stool, crosses his arms, and rests his head against the makeshift pillow it creates.

Harry quirks an eyebrow, but Cara shakes her head again. 

Peter falls asleep.

Harry sidles up to Cara. “Isn’t it annoying how he missed an entire week, and now he’s fucking sleeping while we sit here staring at microscopes waiting for something to happen?”

“He talked to Warren. He’s going to make up the time.” She leans down to observe the slide she placed under the microscope, jots something down in her notebook, and sets the organism back under a heat lamp. “It’s really none of our business.”

“We’re carrying the burden when he’s not here,” Harry says.

He’s pissed that he and Cara had to write up a report for Warren by themselves. They fucked up a calculation twice and were stuck in the lab without dinner until ten. His dad forgot his birthday, and when Harry tried to call him the next day to catch up, he was told his father was in an important meeting with Tony Stark. His dad never called back, and Harry had to be the one to reach out a second time. He had a dream about MJ a few nights ago, and he feels the beginning pulses of a headache. 

“God, you’re so annoying,” she says. “Listen, all I know is he’s been dealing with some personal shit, and then MJ dumped him, so maybe you should learn some comp--”

“She dumped him?” Harry interrupts. 

Cara’s face softens, and she pulls the disposable gloves off her hands. “Yeah. Friday night.”

“Why?”

“She said she just couldn’t do it anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Be quiet,” Cara hisses, glancing at Peter before dropping her gloves into the trash bin. “Be with him, I guess. She didn’t really want to talk about it. And he didn’t seem to want to, either.”

Harry wipes his hands against his pants. “Uh, can I get her number?”

Cara looks at Harry like he just killed her metaphorical cat. “Why?”

“We’ve talked a couple of times, and I uh, I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

“No,” Cara decides. Her eyebrows furrow. “Go read that research Warren sent us and see if it’s useful.” 

“Cara, I’m not trying to do anything like ... Bro code, and all that, you know?”

“Of course not,” she says, her tone accusatory. 

 

 

The next day, Peter’s black eye is healed. Harry takes him and Cara out for drinks, and Peter looks on the verge of tears the entire time. Cara was right when she said he didn’t want to talk about it. All he gives is that he loves MJ, he understands why she needed to do it, and that it just wasn’t working out right now. 

“Right now,” Peter says, as if it’s going to magically work out in the future. 

In Harry’s experience, people break up for a reason, and getting back together usually isn’t in the cards. But he nods his head and lets it slide. He’s afraid if he tries to dowse Peter in reality, Peter will actually start crying. 

Harry waits a week to request MJ on social media, and it takes her almost another week to accept. After the first day of waiting and checking his phone too many times, he would have rescinded the requests, but he’s sure she’s already seen them. MJ’s Twitter is public, or at least, the one Harry found is, and she’s tweeted, so taking it back would be even more obvious and embarrassing. 

When she does add him, Harry scrolls through her Facebook posts. She doesn't use it much, only occasionally sharing articles about global warming, the political machinations of superheroes, and sketches he realizes are her own. He accidentally likes five of her Instagram posts: two pictures of herself, a third of her flipping off her laptop, a drawing she did of Cara, and a quote from _Moon Tiger_. 

The sad part is the self-control required not to like more of MJ’s posts, scrolling back to the very beginning of her feed. 

Harry DMs her asking for book recommendations.

She leaves him on read. 

 

 

The last Monday of their internship, Harry asks Peter if he wants to get lunch. 

“Can’t. I’m, uh, meeting MJ at two,” he says, transferring data into a spreadsheet. 

“Really?” Harry croaks. 

“Yeah.” 

“Are you guys back together?”

“No. No.” Peter glances up. His mouth is small and tight. “Just friends.”

“That’s mature,” Harry offers. His throat feels dry. 

Peter shrugs. “I don’t know. Can’t really imagine my life without her at this point, so.”

Peter’s phone vibrates at 10 ‘til two. He heads out, and Harry rereads the same page another three times. His stomach turns, and he glances at the lab’s door every other minute.

“I’m going to get some air,” he announces. 

Cara glares at him. “God, leave her alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not subtle. And you have her post notifications on.”

Harry swallows. “I just need some non-recycled air.”

 

 

Harry sits on the bench across from the building, half-hoping MJ walks Peter back, and half-hoping she doesn’t. 

She does. 

He watches them say goodbye before crossing the street and purposefully running in to her. “Hey, MJ.”

She blinks away her surprise, looking up from the worn paperback in her hands. “Hi.”

“How are you?”

“Okay.” MJ narrows her eyes and crosses her arms. “You?”

“Good, yeah.” Harry nods. “Would you-- would you want to go out with me this weekend?”

Her nose wrinkles. “What?”

“It’s fine if you don’t. I just thought, you know, might as well shoot my shot.”

“Gross,” she mumbles. 

He frowns and laughs uncomfortably. “Okay, sorry, yeah, that was stupid.” 

Harry walks back inside, shaking his head. He can’t believe he worked up the courage to ask MJ out. There were no signs that she liked him. Hell, she and Peter haven’t even been broken up that long. But some stupid part of his brain thought maybe she felt the energy he felt both times they talked. She liked his last Instagram post. He deluded himself into thinking maybe she would--

“Harry?” she calls. 

He turns around before heading through security. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think you’re gross.”

“Oh, okay? That’s good to hear.”

“I’m not ready to date anyone.” She sighs. “But we could be friends.”

He doesn’t really want to be her friend, but he says, “Aren’t we already?”

“Sure.” She smiles, small and warm. Harry hasn’t gotten past thinking he’s in love with her, even though he tries to convince himself it’s infatuation. “DM me some books you actually think I’d like. No bullshit.”

She turns sharply and leaves before he can respond. 

 

 

Harry shoves his wallet in his back pocket and cracks his neck.

The summer was long, and boring, and their research felt more surface level than it should have. At least it’ll look good on his resume. 

“Hey, can we talk?” Peter asks. His lab coat is still on. He has to keep working through next week to make up for all the hours he missed. 

“Uh, sure.” 

Peter shifts and shoves his hands into his pockets. “MJ told me you asked her out.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, man, it was like. Stupid. She said ‘no’ anyway. So you have nothing to worry about.” Harry scuffs his shoe against the threadbare carpet.

“No, it’s, uh, it’s fine.” 

Harry looks up at him. 

Peter’s face is pale, but his cheeks are almost red. “I just wanted to say thanks for not asking me first. Because she can do whatever she wants, and I want her to be happy, and I don’t-- I don’t know that I would have said it was okay.”

Harry runs his tongue over his teeth. “Would you be saying this if she’d said ‘yes?’”

“I don’t know.” Peter swallows.

“I want to ask her out again.”

Peter blinks. “Huh?”

“Just being honest.”

Peter’s eyes widen, and he clenches his jaw. His face burns pink. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and presses his palms against his eyelids. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” he says. He shakes his hands out and meets Harry’s stare. “I don’t want you to do that. Just being honest,” he tacks on, and it feels more cruel than anything Harry’s ever heard Peter say.

“Are you saying I can’t?”

Peter hesitates, and the beat makes Harry uncomfortable. “No,” he decides. “Like I said, she can do whatever she wants. And so can you.” 

“Cool.” Harry holds out his hand. “It was nice working with you this summer.”

“Yeah.” Peter glances at Harry’s outstretched palm, but he doesn't shake it. He points toward the lab. “I gotta get back to work.”

 

 

The leaves start changing color the next time he sees MJ in person. The air is unseasonably warm despite the last few days possessing a chill. 

Harry meets her at a coffee shop. When he arrives, she’s already sitting at a table with a drink in front of her, flipping through a book. “Hey,” he greets, sitting across from her. “I would have gotten that for you.”

She closes the book and slides it across the table. “Don’t write in it or bend any pages.”

“I promise.” Harry splays his hand across the cover. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

“You need the education.” 

“Apparently.” Harry clamps down around his smile. He hopes he’s gotten good at hiding it. He’s had practice trying to stifle a grin with every message he’s gotten from her about books, her senior thesis, or Ned’s insistence that they become running partners. 

“Are you getting something to drink?” she asks. 

“If you’re planning on hanging out a while?”

She takes a sip and looks at him. “You can’t eat or drink anything around my book.”

“If you say so.” He makes a show of carefully placing the book in his backpack before heading to the counter to order. He glances back at MJ as he waits. Her hair is held at the base of her neck in a low ponytail, and she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth as she looks at something on her phone. When she spots him watching her, she raises an eyebrow and makes a shooing motion with her hand. 

Harry looks down at his feet. 

They talk about his classes, and Harry recounts sitting at a separate lunch table in elementary school due to his peanut allergy. MJ congratulates him on the job he’s officially accepted at Oscorp, and he doesn’t tell her he didn’t have a choice. Harry watches her posture slacken and her eyes open up. She licks at her upper lip as though her last sip left residue and dabs at her mouth with a napkin. 

“I’m reading _Lady Susan_ with my friend Gwen. I say that loosely, because I finished the book yesterday and she hasn’t started yet, but-- What are you doing?”

Harry blinks. “What?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“You’re … talking?”

MJ bites the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, but you’re not looking at me like you’re really listening.”

“Your friend hasn’t started the book yet,” Harry repeats back. He sits up straight and feels a bit smug. 

“Right.” She exhales and swipes at her phone. “I should get going or I’m going to be late meeting Ned and Peter.”

“Don’t go.” 

“What?” she mutters without looking up.

The sun is beginning to set, and the lighting in the coffee shop hasn’t adjusted yet. Everything is just a shade too dark. Michelle’s mouth is flat as she types something on her phone, and Harry thinks about reaching across the small table, placing his hand over hers to still it before twining their fingers together. 

“Don’t go. We could get dinner.”

When she finds his eyes, he deflates. “Be serious, Harry.”

“I am. I like you, MJ. And I think you like me.” She scoffs. “I know you’re still working through whatever it was you and Peter had.” Her eyes narrow, and she opens her mouth to say something, but he cuts her off. “But it’s been two months, and maybe you need to get under somebody new to get over it.”

“You have to stop speaking it gross cliches.”

“If I do, will you go to dinner with me?”

She sucks her cheek into her mouth, and her phone vibrates. She unlocks it with a passcode and her thumbprint, reading the message before making eye contact. “I can’t promise you anything, but I like telling you how much your taste in books disappoints me.” 

“Very mutual.” 

“I don’t know if I’m ready to date, so this could end really horribly.”

He nods and hope crashes through any sense of self-preservation. “I don’t care.” 

MJ tilts her head and frowns. “Okay. But I did just finish _Lady Susan_ last night.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Her frown smooths out into something almost fond. “The fact that you’ve never read a single Austen book is extremely worrying.”

“You’ve mentioned that before.” He smiles and pushes himself up. “Do you like Italian?”

“I’m not opposed.”

At the end of the night, she stands outside her apartment and spreads her palm over his chest. It’s a comforting warmth. She says, “You might be a rebound.”

“I might not be?” he asks. 

She doesn’t respond, so he kisses her. 

 

 

His father crosses his arms and stares at him. “Did you think this was voluntary?”

“No, I knew I was supposed to be there. But I had an exam last night, and then I got caught up in reading for my thesis.” Harry swallows and looks at the crooked magnet on the fridge just over his dad’s shoulder. 

“You forgot?”

“I lost track of time,” Harry corrects.

His dad clenches his jaw. “You need to develop better time management skills. I risked a lot getting you this meeting with Mr. Nguyen You’ve embarrassed yourself, Oscorp, and _me_. I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation.”

“I do. I do. I’m so sorry, dad.”

“I’ll smooth things over tomorrow.” 

“Let me do it,” Harry says, looking his dad in the eye. He feels his shoulders hunch under the black, angry stare. 

His dad shakes his head. “Absolutely not. You got me into this mess, and I don’t trust you to--” He’s cut off by a steady and even knock on the door. Harry’s eyes flit to the microwave clock, and he frowns. “Were you expecting company?” his father asks. 

“No,” Harry lies. 

“Because you shouldn’t have had time to get here from the meeting if you had actually attended.”

The knock comes again. “I can hear you,” MJ says.

“Yeah, I’m--” Harry starts.

His dad swings the door open. “Hello, miss …”

“Michelle,” she answers. Harry can’t see her with his dad towering in the doorway, but he moves closer and stands on his tiptoes. “I’m here to see Harry.”

“My son is otherwise occupied,” his dad says, resting his hand against the doorjamb. 

“Tell him to unoccupy himself.”

Harry cringes. “Dad, please. I’m sorry.”

His dad turns to look at him, and MJ ducks underneath his arm and pushes into the apartment. “Okay, great,” MJ says, brushing some curls off her forehead. She looks at his dad. “Harry owes me a cup of tea.”

His dad frowns. “Harry has more important things to worry about than buying you a cup of tea. He needs to figure out how to add meeting reminders to his calendar and not fuck up important business relationships.”

“MJ, I’m sorry, This isn’t a--”

“Don’t apologize. You’re not the one speaking to me like I’m a moron,” she cuts him off, narrowing her eyes at his father. 

Harry looks between them and flexes his hand. He can’t remember the last time he talked back to his dad. He suspects he did, at least once, when he was young, but he must have quickly learned it didn’t get him anywhere. He doesn’t know if submissive compliance earns his dad’s respect or love, but he’s been running down the same path for so long, it feels futile to head back the other direction. 

“Barging in here without permission is trespassing,” his father says. 

MJ rolls her eyes. “Are you going to call security on me? I think Gus is on duty, and he had knee surgery a few weeks ago.”

His dad grits his teeth. “I’m trying to have a conversation with my idiot son in the apartment I pay for.”

“Name-calling doesn’t tend to work as a means of reinforcement, so unless Harry has any objections, I think we’re going to dinner. You can sit in the apartment you pay for or find someone else to belittle. I don’t care.” MJ looks at Harry, mouth flat and expression neutral. 

His father’s eyes are consumed by rage, and Harry cowers. “I’m sorry, dad. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

MJ grabs his hand and pulls him out the door. He hopes his palm doesn’t feel as clammy to her as it does to him. Harry rolls his shoulders back and leans his head to the left and then the right, but he can still feel the tension vibrating in his neck. MJ pushes open the door to the apartment complex and drops his hand. 

He follows her a few blocks to a secondhand bookstore and blankly watches her wander the stacks. Occasionally, she runs a finger along the spines, pulling a book out to read the back or inside cover. She puts all of them back. 

Harry clears his dry throat. “I’m sorry about my dad.”

“He has a point about putting meeting reminders into your phone,” MJ says. Her eyes are warm and soft with an undercurrent of understanding. 

“Yeah. He always has a point.”

“I doubt that.”

He nods and puts some space between them. Harry turns down a different aisle and finds a stack of books by Barbara Pym. He remembers MJ listing _Quartet in Autumn_ in one of her early messages. She sent him a lot of lists, and he can’t remember how she filed it. Maybe under ‘sadly comforting.’ But he can’t be sure. 

As he meanders, his mind continuously attempts to draft apology emails to Mr. Nguyen and his father. Harry regrets leaving with MJ, but if he hadn’t, his father would’ve lectured him for another ten minutes before slamming the apartment door and leaving Harry there to draft apology emails on his laptop, anyway. 

“Hey,” MJ says, holding out a bag.

“What’s this?”

“It’s for you.”

Harry takes the purchase, frowning. “I thought I owed you.”

“You do,” MJ affirms. 

She bought him a children’s book titled _Knock, Knock_. His forehead wrinkles, and he flips through it. “I know you think I never developed beyond an elementary school reading level, but I--” It’s a book about a dad leaving his son. Harry swallows down the lump in his throat. “I’ve told you many times that I can read.”

“I know.” 

He looks at her. She blows a curl out of her eyes. 

He closes the book and shoves it back in the plastic bag. 

Harry loves her.

 

 

Peter answers the door to MJ’s apartment. His smile thins when he sees Harry. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Harry nods. “I’m here to pick up MJ for our--”

“--date,” Peter finishes. 

“Yeah.”

Peter opens the door. “Harry’s here!”

“I know!” MJ calls. “I’m getting ready!”

Harry expects Peter to leave, but he lets Harry past him and then closes the door. He grabs two mugs from the coffee table, rinses them at the sink and places them in the dishwasher. Peter collects a notebook and calculator, throwing them in a backpack. He grabs a hoodie laying over the arm of MJ’s old, lumpy sofa, turning the material in his hands before pulling it over his head. One of the strings is twice as long as the other. 

Harry shifts on his feet, still standing in the small space that feels like an entrance despite somehow being part of both the kitchen and living room. “Were you guys studying?”

Peter glances at him. “Research.”

“Cool.” 

“Yep.” Peter looks down the hallway toward MJ’s closed bedroom door. “Listen, I don’t really know what’s going on with you guys, but I’m not-- I just want her to be good, you know? Happy. Safe.”

“I’m not going to hurt her,” Harry huffs.

“I didn’t--” Peter scratches at the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

“Okay.” Harry nearly rolls his eyes. 

“Peter!” MJ calls. 

“What?”

“Did you steal that stupid SOH CAH TOA sweatshirt from me last week?” 

“It’s mine,” he answers.

“It fits me better!”

Peter looks at Harry like he’s hoping to share in some common frustration, but Harry presses his mouth into a flat line. He wishes he owned a single sweatshirt for MJ to steal. Peter shakes his head and tugs off the hoodie he just pulled on. He walks down the hall and knocks on MJ’s door. “You decent?”

“Shut up.” 

Peter twists the handle and walks in. Harry moves to see MJ standing in front of a mirror. The left side of her hair is brushed and pinned back loosely, and she’s currently working on the right 

“Here,” Peter says, tossing the navy hoodie onto the chair next to her.

“Thank you.” Harry can’t see her face well enough, but he knows she’s smiling, victorious. “Text me if anything important happens.”

“Are you sure?” Peter asks. His head shifts toward the door, but he doesn’t look at Harry. 

MJ sighs. “Yeah, you’re right. Text me if Ned is too busy, though.”

“I’ll think about it.”

There’s a long beat where MJ seems to get her hair pinned the way she wants. She says something, but it’s too quiet for Harry to hear. 

“Okay, fine,” Peter sighs. 

Harry watches the awkward, aborted attempt at a hug. Peter reaches out and squeezes her hand. They say goodbye, and Peter exits the room, throwing his backpack over his shoulder and waving at Harry. “Have a good night,” he says. 

“Yeah, you, too.” 

 

 

MJ pushes up the sleeves of Peter’s sweatshirt. 

“Can I ask you something?” Harry says.

“No.” She picks up her fork and twirls a noodle around it, glancing up at him. “I’m kidding.”

Harry takes a sip of water. He needs to figure out what question he really wants to ask. He doesn’t want to upset her, or push her away, or push her back toward Peter. 

Because Harry knows MJ doesn’t love him. He hopes she will eventually. He hopes that if he loves her enough and figures out the way she wants to be loved, she’ll love him back. He just has to be patient. 

“Why did you break up with Peter?”

She fumbles with her fork. “I didn’t. It was a mutual agreement.”

“Oh.” Harry nods. His knife scrapes unpleasantly against his plate when he cuts a piece of steak. “Okay.”

She doesn’t elaborate, so he doesn’t ask again. 

 

 

“I think it was Professor Plum, in the hall, with the revolver,” MJ says.

“UGH,” Ned groans. He leans back in his chair and scrubs his hands over his face. “This should be illegal.”

“Well, it isn’t.” Michelle smirks, picking up his piece and moving it into the hall with her. 

“This game is stupid. We all have reasonable skills of deduction, and we’re all gonna figure it out at the same time.” 

“I figured it out two rounds ago,” MJ replies. Harry picks through his cards, and she continues, “Harry can’t disprove it, but you can.”

“Then why haven’t you made an accusation yet?” Ned asks. The front legs of his chair hit the floor with a loud whack, and he rests his elbows on the table. 

“I can’t disprove it,” Harry says, reorganizing his cards into a stack and setting them face down on the table. 

“See.” MJ tilts her head, smile smug. “I’m trying to see how long I can put it off before you losers beat me to it. Now, show me the card.”

“But you _know_ what it is,” Ned argues. “Or … or maybe you just want me to think you know what it is, but you’re bluffing?”

“Do I ever bluff?”

Ned’s mouth parts, and his eyes cut to Harry. “No, I guess not.”

If there’s tension, none of it comes from MJ. She sticks out her finger and moves it in a circular motion that means _hurry up_. “Come on, Leeds. I don’t have all day.”

“I spent six hours programming a robot today, MJ. Sorry I couldn’t see that you are purposely being an agent of chaos.” Ned spreads the cards in his hand, plucks one out and gives it to her. 

“Hmm, interesting choice.”

Ned sighs. “Can you please just tell us the answer?”

“No, because you don’t know the room where it happened, and Harry doesn’t know the murder weapon.”

During her next turn, MJ either takes pity on Ned, which seems unlikely, or figures out if she gives Harry one more chance to make a suggestion, he’ll solve the game before her. Turns out it was Mrs. White with the lead pipe in the kitchen. 

Harry takes a pull of beer. “It’s getting late.”

“Yeah,” Ned says, rubbing at his eyes. 

MJ crouches, scanning the stack of games on the bookshelf in her dining room. “We could play Risk.”

“Risk takes _forever_ ,” Ned whines.

“You’re just upset that everyone destroyed you last time.”

“Fine, if you want to play a game that’ll make Friday turn into Saturday, let’s play Monopoly.”

MJ scoffs. “It’s a quarter ‘til midnight. Go Fish would accomplish that. And do you really want to give me a chance to prove I’m better at capitalism than you?”

“We could always call it a night,” Harry says. He looks at Ned, hoping he gets the hint.

“I still have this UNO pack. Maybe your exhausted brain can handle that,” MJ suggests, plucking the deck off the shelf and tossing it onto the table. It almost slides off, but Harry puts out his hand to catch it.

“I love UNO,” Ned says, voice brightening. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom, and then you’ll feel the wrath of my skips.”

“Sure thing, Leeds.” MJ shakes her head. “I’m going to get more tea, you want anything, Harry?”

“Another beer?” 

MJ nods and heads off, and Harry drums his hands against the deck, letting a frustrated breath escape his mouth. 

Tonight started out promising: Peter cancelled, MJ’s friends stayed for takeout and Phase 10 before heading to a bar almost an hour ago, and Ned had looked on the verge of falling asleep even before that. Harry tried to push him out the door with MJ’s friends, but Ned won’t fucking leave. 

Harry pries open the deck and hits the bottom against his palm the way his dad used to with a new pack of cigarettes. He starts to shuffle, and Ned walks back in. “You’re going to have to redo that.”

“Why?”

“She’ll accuse you of cheating.”

Harry’s forehead wrinkles as Ned retakes his seat. “It’s just UNO.”

Ned grins and shakes his head. “You’ve got a lot to learn, man.”

Ned’s phone plays a short sequence of five notes that bring to mind a combination of terror and excitement. Ned snatches it off the table and his eyes widen.

“Was that--?” MJ hollers from the kitchen.

“Yes!” Ned yells. 

“Ned,” MJ starts, her voice booming, becoming louder and higher as she sprints back. “Is Peter--”

“The thing we thought was going to be next weekend, it’s--”

“Fuck.”

“Laptop. I need your laptop,” Ned says, pushing back from the table. His chair wobbles but doesn’t tip. He laces his fingers together and pushes up, cracking his knuckles. 

“Yeah, yeah.” MJ turns and slips in her socks, catching herself on the wall before heading down the hall.

Ned types into his phone, mumbling, “Oh man, Oh god.” 

When MJ returns, she opens her laptop and moves her finger restlessly across the mousepad. “I’ll see you later, Harry.”

He frowns. “What?”

She types her password and pushes her laptop toward Ned. He hands her his phone, and MJ snatches hers up, too. She opens it: passcode and thumbprint. 

Harry clears his throat. “I’m sorry, what’s happening?”

“I’ll call Peter,” Ned says. He takes both phones and walks in the direction of MJ’s bedroom. 

“You have to go,” MJ says. She stares down at him and crosses her arms over her chest. He hears Ned exclaim ‘Shit!,’ probably from behind MJ’s closed bedroom door. “ _Now_.”

“Why are you kicking me out?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s midnight, and Ned and I have to make sure Peter’s okay.”

“Is he dying?” It comes out sarcastic, but MJ’s mouth pinches and she glares at him. “How was I supposed to know if he’s terminally ill?”

“Jesus, Harry. He’s not dying.”

Harry can’t decide if she’s telling him or trying to convince herself, so he stands up and hugs her. It’s awkward, her crossed arms between them. Her body stiffens. “Sorry,” he says, pulling back. 

She follows him to the front door, twisting a ring around her finger while Harry slips on his shoes, buttons his coat and tugs his hat over his head. He leans down and presses a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” She worries her lip. “Night, Harry.”

“Goodnight.”

He hears the lock click behind him. 

 

 

MJ doesn’t respond to the text he sent her on Saturday until Monday, and they set up a time to get coffee on Tuesday. 

Harry arrives first, orders for both of them, and sits at a table in the sun in an attempt to ward off the bone-aching chill from the walk over. He’s spent hours contemplating the best way to approach her. His friends offered varied forms of unhelpful advice including ‘dump her’ and ‘pray Peter kicks rocks soon,’ which is awful, even as a joke. Even worse, Harry thinks if Peter died right now, Harry’s in the wrong place at the wrong time, and MJ would dump him, even though they’re not officially dating. 

MJ arrives at four on the dot, hair frizzing out from under her hat, wet with melting snow. Her nose is flushed, and she smiles at him. His heart leaps.

“Hi.” She pulls off her gloves and stuffs them into her coat pockets before unzipping it and hanging it around the back of her chair. 

“Hey.” He nudges the tea toward her.

“Thanks.” She sits and wraps her hands around the cup. “How’ve you been?”

“Good?” 

“Are you asking me?” MJ takes a sip, followed by the smallest hint of a frown.

“No, I’m good. Did I get your order wrong?”

“No.” She clears her throat. “Sorry about Friday. Peter’s a dumbass, but everything’s fine.”

Harry nods. “Good. I’m sorry if I was insensitive. I didn’t realize he’s…”

“He’s not dying,” she says, sharp. 

“Okay.”

MJ’s eyes track Harry’s face. “I think we should stop seeing each other.”

“Not dying really puts things into perspective,” Harry says. He saw this coming, but it’s still a surprisingly crushing blow. 

“I’m not getting back together with Peter,” she answers, slow, steady, and still watching him too closely. 

“I don’t understand.”

MJ picks up her cup, smells the chai wafting through the lid, and sets it down without taking a sip. “You’re more invested in this than I am, and it’s not fair. I don’t want to string you along or make you feel like … I don’t know. It’s not right. What I’m doing. With you.”

“Be my girlfriend.”

“What?” Her eyes widen. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

“I did.” Harry shrugs. “But I like you, MJ. I don’t care if you think I like you more than you like me.” Her mouth purses, but she doesn’t argue. “I just think that if you want to move on from Parker in a real way, you have to do something different. You really have to let yourself. We have fun together, don’t we?”

“Sometimes.”

He feels his mouth tick up. “Yeah, we do. Giving me a real shot could be good for you.”

“What about you?” she asks, tucking a curl behind her ear. 

“What about me?” She sits back and scowls. He chuckles. “You’ve been honest with me, right?”

She nods. 

“Great. I have all the facts, and I still want to date you. I’m an adult.”

“I’m an adult,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Lucky for you, I think you made a few good points.”

“You like me.” Harry clenches his jaw to keep from smiling. 

“Don’t say you’re an adult and then act like a 13-year-old.” 

“Okay.” Harry lets himself smile and taps on her cup. “Now, what do you really want?”

MJ hesitates.

“Having to buy you another drink is what I get for assuming.”

“It _was_ presumptuous of you.” She sits up and straightens out her sweater. The neck stretches to the left and exposes a bit of her collarbone. Harry loves her. “I’ll take a hot chocolate,” she relents.

“Perfect.” He reaches across the table and brushes some hair away from MJ’s face. 

She frowns, but she doesn’t flinch away. 

 

 

MJ is a force of nature: a storm blowing Harry off his feet, and the sun warming him from the inside out. He likes that she’d hate the metaphor. She’d call it trite and lazy. 

She paces across his apartment, hands flexing by her sides, and rants about an English professor’s notes on her thesis. “I explained why I didn’t want to write about Atwood’s _MaddAddam_ trilogy when I proposed my topic. I know he’s allegedly busy, but trying to shoehorn his environmental lit. syllabus into my fucking thesis so he doesn’t have to read another book is getting absurd. Like _Walden_? Really?”

She stops abruptly, placing her hands on her hips and turning toward him. “You don’t care.”

“I care that you’re upset?” he tries. 

“What did you think of the draft?”

Harry squints. “Um, it was … good?”

“You didn’t read it.” She sighs and plops down next to him. 

“I meant to. Tissue engineering is kicking my ass.”

MJ hums and leans her head back. “Sure.”

“Don’t be annoyed,” he says. “It’s 30 pages long.”

“34, and it’s not even finished.”

“I know.” Harry slips his arm around her shoulders and pulls her against his side. “But you’re too stressed out right now to do anything about it.” 

“I thrive under pressure.”

“Stress isn’t pressure.”

She snorts. “Okay, I wasn’t asking about technical definitions.”

“Okay, English major.”

“Not really--”

“Shh,” he cuts her off, ducking down to press his mouth against her jaw. 

MJ pushes at his chest and pulls away. “Don’t ever ‘Shh’ me again if you want to keep your dick.”

“My bad.” Harry holds up his hands in surrender. “Did I ruin the mood?”

“There was no mood to ruin,” she says, but she comes back, presses her palm against the nape of his neck, and pulls him closer. 

She kisses him slowly and inches toward him. Harry places his hands on her waist, pulling her along and smiling against her mouth when she goes willingly. She’s warm and soft against him, and Harry rucks his hand underneath her hoodie, underneath the shirt that’s beneath it. He counts the puzzle pieces of her spine with his fingers, making a small, low noise in the back of his throat when she nips at his bottom lip. 

Harry likes the steady press of MJ against him, the solidness of her on top of him. He wants to believe she’ll always be steady and solid. 

Her hair tickles his cheek, and she places an open-mouthed kiss against his pulse before running her palm down his arm, grabbing the hand on her waist and tugging it away. “This is a bad idea,” she whispers. 

“I don’t care.” He squeezes her left hand with his right, runs his right up and down her spine, and kisses her chin. 

“Look at me,” she says. He does. “This is the most idiotic decision we could make.”

Harry nods. 

Her eyes are soft, blown and kind. Her mouth is bruised from his. And she knows how much he cares about her.

She knows this would mean something to him. MJ probably knows Harry has thought about this for a long time, even if she can’t pinpoint that he’s been thinking about it since their first conversation. She knows the effect she has on him, just as he knows MJ’s probably thought about this, too. He also knows she probably still thinks about Peter, that she cares about Harry, but it won’t mean the same thing to her.

It’s absurdly idiotic.

“If you don’t care, I don’t care,” he says. 

She swallows, maintaining eye contact. 

There’s guilt in the set of her mouth but determination in her eyes when she kisses him again.

 

 

Harry and MJ have weekly coffee-hot chocolate dates on Monday afternoons, and she usually stops by his apartment Thursday nights, and then they do something on Friday or Saturday.

It feels routine and comfortable, but Harry’s heart beats heavy, and he can’t help but grin whenever he sees her.

Harry parses out that MJ comes from money, too, and whenever he takes her out, she grumbles about paying him back. He makes the mistake of letting her keep her ticket to _I Am My Own Wife_ , and he finds the cash, rounded up to the nearest five, in his coat pocket a week later. He doesn’t slip it back to her, if only because he zoned out halfway through the play and had to fight to keep from falling asleep, his head lolling forward.

He finds the orchestra and ballet boring, but he has yet to discover a museum he doesn’t enjoy. MJ disagrees about the orchestra and the ballet, but she agrees about the museums. 

She doesn’t like the souvenirs Harry tries to buy her. He finds the Monet coasters he gave her hidden in one of his cabinets, but she does eat her astronaut ice cream sandwich even though she fusses about trying to cut dairy out of her diet.

Harry feels MJ opening up. He knows her hair smells like strawberries, she has a stack of YA mysteries that she likes to read while eating breakfast, and if he catches her at the right time in the morning or at night, her mouth will be slick with chapstick. He files all his knowledge away, but he wants more. Harry wants to know everything about her. He wants to know why she pretends not to cry at the end of _When Harry Met Sally_. He wants to know why she owns two tubes of red lipstick she never wears, and he wants to know why she never talks about her family.

Her mother calls one Thursday when they’re eating takeout and watching an action film she doesn’t like. She leaves the room and tells him, “Please don’t pause this trainwreck and expect me to come back caring about the three minutes I’ve missed. I’ll figure it out.” 

When she returns, Harry pauses the movie. MJ rolls her eyes. “What’d your mom want?”

“She has a work conference in Boston next weekend.” She tilts her head toward the screen. “I’m going to leave if this movie isn’t over by ten.”

 

 

Harry watches MJ pin her curls back and out of her eyes while he sits on the end of her bed. His leg bounces. 

“We’re not going to be late,” she says, looking at him through the mirror. 

“I know.”

Harry’s nervous. Not because it’s MJ’s birthday, or because he made a reservation at a fancy restaurant and she’s wearing a dress that hugs her just right, but because he found her mother’s contact information on the website for the conglomerate she works for and invited her and MJ’s father to dinner. 

Her secretary said she’d pass the message along, but he hasn’t heard anything back, and her Mom didn’t respond to his email. Harry doesn’t know if she’s just going to show up, or not bother showing up at all. 

At least if she doesn’t come, MJ will never know.

Harry takes a deep breath and wipes his palms against his dress pants. He straightens out his tie and watches MJ gently tug her curls apart. 

Her phone vibrates against her desk. She glances at it, frowns, and unlocks it: passcode and thumbprint. “Hello?” she asks. 

Whoever is calling speaks, and MJ’s body tenses. Harry can’t hear clearly, but he thinks the voice is female.

Harry watches as MJ’s eyebrows furrow, her mouth thins, and her eyes flit over Harry in the mirror. “Okay?” she says. “Yeah … Sure … That’s fine … Right … I know … Okay … Bye.”

She hangs up but grips her phone in her hand, exhaling. 

“Who was that?” Harry asks. 

“My mother,” she says, low and tight. “She won’t be making it to dinner. Which is good, because I can’t go, either.”

“What?” 

MJ reaches behind her, unzipping her dress and wiggling it off her shoulders. Harry can’t even appreciate the smooth skin of her back because her eyes are dark and narrow. “She doesn’t know why you contacted her via her office.”

“Right.” Harry swallows. “Right. That probably wasn’t the most professional method, but I didn’t know how else to--”

“She doesn’t know why I’m going out on a Thursday night when I should be studying, especially because my GPA is only a 3.8, unrounded.” MJ opens the door to her closet. She grabs a pair of yoga pants and rolls them up her legs. 

“I wanted to give her the chance to wish you happy birthday in person,” Harry says. 

MJ pulls a T-shirt off a hanger and stretches the neck of it in the process. Another hanger falls to the ground, but she ignores it and slams the closet shut. “You wanted to meet her.”

“I wanted to give you a good surprise.”

“No,” MJ says. She tugs the shirt on. “You went behind my back and called my mother, who I’ve never introduced you to, and in return I got a lecture.” She grabs the hoodie hanging over the back of her desk chair and yanks her arms through the sleeves before zipping it up to her chin. 

“I’m sorry. I thought you’d appreciate--”

“Don’t. You didn’t do this out of the kindness of your heart, Harry. You did this for you. You tried to take something I wasn’t ready to give you.” She opens her dresser, pulls out a pair of socks and slides them onto her feet. “Just because you’d do anything for your dad’s approval doesn’t mean I’m the same way. It’s pathetic.” 

Harry’s inhale is sharp and painful. He feels it burn in his chest. He ignores it. “MJ, come on. I didn’t know she was going to--”

“Call me?” she asks, slipping on the wristlet she moved her wallet into earlier. She picks up her phone and keys. “Yeah, I didn’t either. We’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?” He stands up, flipping the lights off and following her out of her room.

“You’re going to dinner, and I’m going anywhere that’s not with you.” MJ grabs her Converse by the front door. Shoving her feet into them without untying the laces, she squats to slip the backs over her heels. 

“MJ, please,” he begs. “Let me make it up to you.”

She yanks open the door, steps aside, and gestures for him to go through. 

“Come to dinner,” he tries. 

“No.” She blinks and nods her head toward the entrance. “Not to sound like your fucking dad, but I’ll call security on you.”

“I’m really sorry,” Harry repeats.

She doesn’t say anything.

Harry waits while she locks the door behind them, follows her down the stairs and into the lobby. He watches her walk away, shoulders hunched and typing out a message on her phone. 

He forgets to call the restaurant to cancel the reservation like he knows he should. Instead, he goes back to his apartment and breaks out a bottle from his whiskey collection.

Harry is drunk within the hour.

He’s still drunk when he checks Ned’s Snapchat. He’s posted twice. The first is a selfie of himself, MJ and fucking Parker. Ned’s grinning, MJ’s flipping off the camera, and Peter looks like a complete asshole incapable of knowing what to do when a camera is directed at him. The second snap is a video. Ned shows the laptop sitting on the coffee table in what Harry assumes must be Ned and Peter’s apartment. _Love & Basketball_ is playing, and Harry only knows that because MJ forced him to watch it the first time he mentioned avoiding anything remotely related to a romcom. Ned pans to the sofa, showing that MJ and Peter have acquired party hats and cupcakes. The caption reads, _wild partaaaaay!!!_

Harry downs another shot and passes out on his couch. 

He wakes up at six in the morning with cotton mouth and a splitting headache. He goes to the toilet to vomit, rinses his mouth out with water and takes an aspirin. 

He crawls into bed, shoots MJ an apology text, and sees the notification. She posted an Instagram photo of herself, Ned and Peter in their party hats. MJ is smiling, and Harry feels a combination of relieved and terrible. Ned and Peter both hold up the peace sign, and their comments make it clear they’re trying to signal that MJ is now 22. Her caption says, _I’m not quoting Taylor Swift._ Ned responded, _it feels like one of those nights, mj! happy bday, legend._ Peter’s lamely commented, _I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling 22_ followed by every emoji everyone always uses when wishing someone happy birthday. MJ replied, _You’re 21, loser._

Harry likes the post and none of the comments before rolling over and falling back asleep. 

 

 

MJ doesn’t respond to the first text he sends and ignores Harry’s call Friday night. He texts another apology Sunday afternoon, but she leaves him on read.

He checks his phone every half hour, refreshing her and her friends’ social media pages. He doesn’t know what he hopes to find, but her friend Neha linking an article about deforestation isn’t it. Desperation claws at his heart, and Harry drafts ten more messages, both on his phone and in his head, 

Sunday night he meets up with Roger, who buys him a beer and points out three different girls Harry could sleep with to “get over his funk.” Two of them are blonde, the third appears to barely clear five feet, and none of them are who Harry wants. He smiles tersely, thanks Roger for his advice, and calls an Uber.

He scans his apartment, thinking there must be something of MJ’s she’ll have to drop by and retrieve. There isn’t. Harry thinks he left his copy of _A Brief History of Time_ at her place along with the Red Sox cap she forced him to take off. Not because she cares about sports, but because as a New Yorker, she couldn’t allow it. 

She doesn’t show up for hot chocolate on Monday.

Harry doesn’t know what to do. He barricades himself in the library and attempts to study, but his focus is shot. Less than an hour later, he gives up and gathers his things. As he rounds the stairs down to the second floor, he spots Peter sitting at a table with two girls, books spread around them and laptops open. 

Harry pauses, exhales through his nose, and decides he doesn’t really have any better option. 

“Hey, Parker. Can I talk to you?” he asks. His backpack strap digs into his shoulder.

Peter looks up, eyes him warily, and exchanges glances with the girls. “Yeah, sure.”

Harry recognizes Angelica from cell engineering and nods ‘hello’ as Peter stands. They walk by four occupied study rooms before opening the door to an empty one. Harry scrapes a hand over his face and huffs. 

“She’s really upset,” Peter says. 

“I know,” Harry snaps. 

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Did you ask to talk just to be an asshole?”

“No.” Harry flexes his hands. He pulls out one of the chairs, sits on the table and props his feet on the seat. He rests his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “She hasn’t replied to any of my texts.”

“She’s upset,” Peter says, clipped. “She has every right to be.”

“I know that, okay?”

“I have a midterm to study for, Harry.” Peter’s jaw ticks, and his eyes hold judgment Harry might deserve, but he doesn’t want it from Parker. 

“Okay, yeah. I just … I’m sorry for what I did, but I don’t know how to convince her to forgive me.” Harry swallows his pride. “Do you have any advice?”

Peter stares at him, eyes narrow and mouth hard. “You need to give her at least a week,” he relents. 

“A week?” Harry shakes his head. “You’re kidding?”

“You need to give her enough time to work through wanting to punch you in the face.”

“MJ wants that, or you?” Harry asks. 

“Her words. Not mine.”

Rage swirls in Harry’s gut at the idea of MJ going to Peter and complaining about him, but he bites his tongue. “What do I do after that?” 

“Apologize in person, tell her what you’re sorry for, and don’t make excuses. She likes chocolate, but avoid Hershey's. Go to a bookstore and buy something for her.” Peter shrugs like it’s simple. 

Harry blinks. “She owns hundreds of books.”

“It doesn’t matter if she’s already read it or has a copy somewhere at her house. What MJ cares about is that you went out and looked for something you thought she might like.”

“What if she hates it?” Harry asks. He knows enough about her taste in books to recommend something she won’t detest. Hell, he could go online and buy her a first edition of _The Bluest Eye_ or _Jane Eyre_ and call it a day. But Harry suspects that’s not what Peter means. He also suspects doing so would just make MJ even angrier. 

“Also doesn’t matter.” Peter almost smiles. “It really is the thought that counts.” 

“Okay. Yeah.” Harry clears his throat. He thinks under different circumstances, he and Peter could have been good friends instead of whatever they are now. “Thanks.” 

Peter nods. “No problem.”

He turns to leave, but Harry stops him. “Could you just … stop spending so much time with her?”

Peter looks back at him. His eyes widen and he scratches at his eyebrow. “What?”

“She’s my girlfriend, and it feels like you’re still in her life too much for an ex. I’d appreciate it if you’d just bow out quietly.”

“MJ’s my best friend,” Peter says slowly. “I’ve never done anything to mess with your relationship.”

“I have a hard time believing that.” Harry stares at him, resisting the urge to stand. Peter’s broader, but Harry’s a couple of inches taller. 

“I really think this is something you should discuss with her.”

Harry scoffs. Then MJ would be upset about that, too. It could push her to break up with him, and he doesn’t want to risk it. Maybe Peter knows that. Harry rubs his knuckles. “Just tell her you’re busy with classes or something.”

“I don’t lie to her,” Peter says, serious and veering back toward judgement. 

Whatever they are now, Harry hates him. “You should tell her it’s better if you stop being friends. She’d receive it better coming from you.”

“She’s too stubborn to accept that, and I’m not a good enough person to cut her out of my life.” Peter shakes his head. “I’ll see you around, Harry.”

The door closes behind him.

Harry mutters, “Dick,” under his breath. 

 

 

MJ sits at their usual table the next Monday, fingers tapping against her cup of coco. Harry ducks his head and smiles sheepishly. He hesitates, pressing a kiss against her forehead before giving her the fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and a secondhand copy of _Circe_. 

Harry apologizes; MJ accepts. 

Things don’t go back to how they were before. Harry can tell she’s wary of him now. She doesn’t trust him. It’s not like when Harry has just met someone and is assessing their character and potential in his life; rather, it’s like when someone feels used and is attempting to figure out if the jokes and the history outweighs the betrayal. 

He tries, though.

He takes her to another ballet and forces his eyes open the entire time. He reads half of _Sense and Sensibility_ before giving up. He actually annotates her thesis with encouraging comments. 

Harry thinks it’s working. 

 

 

Harry hasn’t seen Peter around for two weeks. Normally, he’d take that as a good sign and hope Peter took his concerns in to consideration. He likes that Peter’s not at his and Ned’s place when Harry and MJ come over to play the newest Pandemic game. He likes that he doesn’t see Peter leaving MJ’s apartment, and he likes that it’s just MJ and her Harvard friends who go see that new indie film Friday night. 

Harry would be thrilled, except that with each passing day, MJ becomes more and more irritable. She has bags underneath her eyes, her lips are dry, and he’s seen her pick up and put down new, unread books three separate times. She bites her nails and moves food around her plate without eating more than a few bites. He says, “The early bird gets the worm,” when she tells him she woke up at five in the morning, and she snaps, “Stop talking like that, Harry. It’s fucking annoying.”

Tonight, though, she finishes a cup of coffee, setting it on the empty plate on her nightstand, scattred with crumbs from the toast she ate. MJ has her bottom lip pulled between her teeth as she sketches. Her hair is knotted at the back of her head, and Harry doesn’t even care that if he nuzzles his nose against her temple, she won’t smell like strawberries. 

He leans over and kisses her cheek. 

“What?” she mumbles, fixing some of the linework on a portrait of Spider-man. 

Harry really loves her. “I miss you.”

“Okay, Romeo.”

“Romeo is an idiot,” Harry says. 

“No, you’re an idiot who misunderstood the point of the play.” 

Harry grins. She must be feeling better. It’s April, and the weather is warming. Maybe her sour mood was allergies. 

He works his mouth along her jaw, leaving open, wet kisses until she huffs, closes her sketchbook, and tosses it onto the floor with a plop. “I was busy,” MJ says, but she slides her hand around his neck and pulls him on top of her. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs along her throat, settling his body between her legs. 

She makes another scoffing noise, so he bites at her collarbone before lifting his head to kiss her. MJ’s not as soft or hesitant as she used to be. Her mouth is chapped, and she bites at his bottom lip. Harry slips his tongue past her lips and brushes against the roof of her mouth. He tucks his hand underneath her shirt and splays his palm below her belly button where she’s sensitive and ticklish, just to get her to laugh into his mouth. She’s warm and intoxicating, causing happiness to burn inside his chest.

He presses a light kiss against the corner of her smile and moves his hand up to knead her breast. She doesn’t sigh, but Harry can feel her content exhale. 

MJ’s phone vibrates, and she tenses. 

“Ignore it,” Harry says. He kisses her, but her hand stills against his shoulder blade. “Okay, don’t ignore it.”

He lets her grab her phone and watches her face settle into a neutral expression. “It’s just Cara.” 

She locks the device, falls back onto her pillow, and wiggles so her bun doesn’t bother her. Harry kisses her again, short and sweet. Then, slowly, deeply.

Harry’s annoyance at her phone begins to subside when she exhales a breathy sigh and scratches her nails at the top of his spine. He shivers and presses closer. He wants to touch her everywhere. He starts at the hollow of her throat, but her phone buzzes again. MJ turns her head and looks at it. 

Harry pulls back and pulls his hand out from underneath her shirt. Again. “Fuck, just see if it’s Parker.”

MJ blinks, almost dazed. She pushes herself up on her elbows and tugs her shirt down. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Why not?” he asks, sitting back and looking her in the eye. He’s angry, and bitterness rises in his throat like bile. “I’m right, aren’t I? You’re waiting for a message from Parker?”

Her eyes are wide, and she swallows. She pats her hand against her nightstand, the plate rattling when she hits it before finding her phone. “You don’t understand.”

“Jesus, MJ.” Harry shakes his head. “I was going to fuck you and you’re just…” He gestures to the phone clenched between her fingers. 

She grinds her teeth. “I need to make sure he’s okay.”

“Is the cancer back?” Harry asks, words smothered in sarcasm. 

“Do you even hear yourself right now?”

“Do you? I would understand if something was actually wrong with him, but you’ve assured me he’s not on his deathbed, so pick a fucking lane.”

“I told you to stop using stupid, cliche metaphors,” MJ says, low and flat, bored and unaffected.

Harry groans and balls his hands into fists. “You’re really going to pretend you did nothing wrong? That you weren’t preoccupied with your ex while we were making out?”

Her gaze flutters to her phone.

“That’s what I thought.” Harry pushes off the bed, grabbing his wallet and keys from her nightstand. “Really hope that’s him. You know, for your sake.”

She doesn’t frantically try to explain. She doesn’t beg him to stay. She doesn’t say anything. 

He closes her bedroom door, pinches the bridge of his nose, and exhales.

Harry puts on his shoes slowly, untying and retying the laces twice. He straightens out the collar of his jacket before slipping it on. He waits five minutes, hoping MJ will come out of her room to apologize and stop him from leaving.

She doesn’t. 

 

 

The first thing he notices at the coffee shop on Monday is that MJ’s bought his drink.

“Hey,” he says, squeezing her shoulder and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. 

“Hi.” She bites at the corner of her mouth and nudges the cup toward him. “That’s yours.”

“Thank you.” Harry smiles at her, soft and small. 

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“I accept.”

“This isn’t working.”

“Come on, you’re doing a great job. ‘I’m sorry’ is the best way to start apologizing,” he tries.

She shakes her head. “I’m breaking up with you.”

Harry exhales and rolls his neck. “Because of Peter.”

“Yeah,” she whispers, tracing the rim of her cup with her finger. 

“Typical,” he mutters.

“I told you how I felt, Harry.”

“This is bullshit.”

“Okay.” She blinks. “I’m sorry.”

Harry takes a sip of coffee. It’s warm and perfect. He looks at MJ. His lungs feel like they constrict, and his heart feels like it’s beating double time, and none of that is probably true. But he loves her. That’s true. “I don’t care,” he decides, rushes. 

“Okay,” she repeats. “I understand.”

“No, I don’t care that you’re still in love with him. I’ll wait. I love you and we’ve had some really good times, and I know if you give me a chance--”

“Harry,” she says, soft, sad, and full of pity. It hardens him, anger rising. “You obviously care.”

She’s right. Harry cares that Peter also knows MJ owns three copies of _The Bluest Eye_ , one annotated, one unannotated, and an extra just in case she needs to lend it out. Harry cares that MJ calls Peter a loser in the same tone she uses to mocks him for his taste in books. Harry cares that there’s a half-empty bottle of men’s shampoo in MJ’s shower that doesn’t belong to him, despite it being the same amount of half-empty every time he’s ever been there. He cares that last week she curled up in the SOH CAH TOA hoodie, pulling her palms back into the sleeves. He cares that Peter knows whether she prefers the chocolate coconut or chocolate salted caramel cupcake from Georgetown Cupcakes, and when Harry went to pick one up for her, he didn’t. 

Harry cares that MJ loves Peter despite all the reasons he can think of for her not to: he makes terrible dad jokes, he’s shorter than her, he cancels plans at the last minute, and he broke up with her. 

Harry cares that there are many reasons he shouldn’t love MJ, but they all pale in comparison to the feel of her chin resting on his shoulder when she hugs him, or the way her eyes light up at the surprised sound of her own laugh.

“Yeah, I guess I do,” he admits, halfway between resigned and curt. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have … done any of this,” she says. “I thought maybe I’d actually move on.” MJ pops off the lid on her hot chocolate and presses it back down. “I always thought I was strong enough to be the girl waiting for the phone call. Partly because I refused to be defined as the girl waiting for the phone call. But then I got the phone call, and it was fine, in the end. But I didn’t know if I could handle getting it again. Especially if it wasn’t fine.”

Harry watches as her eyes well with unshed tears. She’s looking at him, but she doesn’t see him. 

“Peter didn’t want that for me, either. But last week, I was still the girl waiting at home, except I wasn’t going to be the one getting the call. And I wanted to be. I knew Ned or May would let me know, but--” She hiccups and wipes away a tear with her thumb. Harry curls his hands into fists. “I’ve been in love with him for as long as I can remember. I don’t want to stop. I like being in love with him.” She inhales, and Harry expects a shake of her head and soft whisper of ‘disgusting’ or ‘gross,’ but it never comes. Instead: “I love being in love with him.”

He vaguely follows half of what she’s saying, but the irony of MJ being the most open and vulnerable she’s ever been while dumping him isn’t lost on Harry. 

She returns her copy of _Circe_ before she leaves, like she’s trying to give back the only part of him she still has.

The part she can physically give back, at least. 

Harry heads to his apartment, throwing his almost full cup of coffee out on the way. He ignores the reading he meant to do tonight and downs half a bottle of whiskey instead. 

When he was 12, he heard his dad tell Uncle Otto that you should never drink whiskey to get drunk. You drink whiskey to enjoy it; you drink vodka to get drunk. 

Harry gets drunk on whiskey. 

He hopes to forget, even for a minute, that the best thing in his life is gone. 

He doesn’t.

He falls asleep on the sofa and wakes up with a crick in his neck. Harry pulls the bottle closer to take another swig before getting up and attempting to pretend he wants to move on. 

He hopes to hell he’s better at it than MJ.


End file.
